Diary of a Recovering Mute
by A.J. Parker94
Summary: After being released from the hospital and permitted to go home with her uncle and Sherlock, Harley Watson is given a journal to write her personal musings as she continues to recover from both her physical and psychological wounds. These are those personal musings in a series of entries. Companion series to, "Let the Words Fall Out."
1. Title Page

_Title Page_

This book belongs to:

 _Harley Mabel Watson_

If lost, please return to address:

 _221B Baker St, Marylebone,_

 _London NW1, 6XE, UK_

Reward for safe return:

 _None_

 _(Sorry, I'm poor)_


	2. May 6

_May 6_

I just want to put this out there right now: I'm not very good with beginnings.

If it were up to me, I wouldn't be bothering with this, but Dr. Malone suggested that I at least try to keep a personal journal when I left St. Bart's. And again when I saw her yesterday, when she found out I haven't even started writing in it yet. She says that it'll help with the healing process, and she hasn't been wrong before, and I don't want to let her down. After all, she's helped me a lot these past several weeks while I was in my darkest place. I guess I owe her that much. So, after letting it gather dust in my bedside drawer for a week, I finally caved.

She told me that whenever I start to feel like everything was becoming too much to handle, I should write down my innermost thoughts and musings in here, and to never show it to anyone else. These pages are for my eyes only.

That wouldn't be a big deal if I wasn't now living with an overprotective, retired military doctor for an uncle and his flatmate, who happens to be a detective with a knack for being a scary genius. I never know exactly how private my life is when I'm around them.

I'm torn between just putting this journal in a special hiding place and only bringing it out once in a blue moon, or keeping it with me at all times. Probably the former. I already carry a notebook around for conversing. I don't need an extra that no one else is going to read.

Dr. Malone also said that since I'm already a good writer, this should come naturally to me, but I don't know. I've tried the whole "keeping a secret diary/journal" thing before, and it didn't always work out. I never could keep up with it. I always ended up stopping after only a few entries.

Then again, after the way my life has been going lately, maybe that'll change.

We'll have to see.

 _With all due respect,_

 _Harley Watson_


	3. May 7

_May 7_

It's still hard for me to come up with something to write about. Maybe it's not just beginnings. Maybe I'm just not very good at keeping a journal.

I suppose I could just lie to Dr. Malone— tell her I'm writing in it when I'm really not.

No, I can't do that. She's been too kind to me.

God, I'm horrible at this.

But now that I think about it, there is a part of me that does want to keep this going. I guess that's why I agreed in the first place.

The part of me that caved in is the part of me that's trying to distract me, keep me busy. I guess that's what happens when you get abducted and tortured by a criminal mastermind, and then spend over three weeks in the mental ward of a hospital.

I seriously could not make that up if I wanted to.

I still can't really remember all that went down that night. I remember being taken, and being forced to come face-to-face with Jim Moriarty, who is without a doubt the most terrifying person I've ever had the misfortune to meet. Then one of his men came in, and then

Sorry, I had to stop there. That part is still fresh in my mind, and it's just too painful. He did terrible things to me. Terrible.

After that, though, is when my memory starts to get foggy. I've tried so hard to remember, but all I get are just brief flashes of images. A dark room. Lots of water. And I think I saw Sherlock, but I'm not so sure. These days, I can hardly trust my own mind.

Sherlock did say that it was at the sports centre, at the swimming pool area, where they met Moriarty, along with how the meeting went between them. That clears some things up, I think. But from what I understand from what Sherlock told me, and with how Uncle John described the event in his blog, we all almost died. So maybe it's a good thing I can't remember most of it.

And I don't want to go into a whole lot of detail of my time in the hospital, but I will let out that I learned some things about myself, and my family— or rather, the one that molded me into the freak I am. An alcoholic mother who was never really there for me and loves her booze more than me. And an abusive, conniving monster who hurt me so bad, she got help from said criminal mastermind to cover her arse and save her own filthy skin.

* * *

Sorry, I had to put you away for a little while. After writing that last paragraph, I ended up getting up and punching the wall. My uncle came up to see if I was okay, and then he helped me bandage up my knuckles. He didn't pressure me into telling him what drove me to do it, but I could tell from that sad face that he just knew. He's been trying to give me some space lately, try to give me room to breathe. I appreciate that, but there is a small part of me that wouldn't mind a little smothering now. Sounds twisted, I know.

Maybe it's because before I came to Baker Street, I was always just in the shadows, staying silent. I was never given so much attention— not in the encouraging way, that is. I didn't mind that back then. I liked not drawing so much attention to myself. Now, though, I can't seem to get enough of it.

Does that make me selfish?

For something that's supposed to help me feel better, this journaling business is actually kind of making me feel worse.

If that was even possible at this point.

I better stop for now. Before I put another dent in my wall.

 _With all due respect,_

 _Harley Watson_


	4. May 12

_May 12_

Yeah, I needed a few days to cool down after that last entry.

First things first: I'm sorry that the first several pages are sad and depressing. It's not often I read things in diary format that start off that way; they usually begin by being upbeat— happy, even— and then slowly descends into despair and madness.

(I just reread that sentence and Jesus, what kind of messed up crap have I been reading? No wonder I ended up this way)

But maybe that'll be the case for me, only in reverse: A harsh beginning, but ends up happy.

I really hope so. I've got another two hundred and something pages to go in this journal, though. So that's going to be a while.

I mean, what happened to me, what I've been through; it's just one of those things you read about in the papers or watch on the news. You don't think it would ever happen to you or your family.

And then it does. And now you're just another statistical tragedy— another percentage in a collection of horrible, newsworthy stories.

I guess, in the end, we all become statistics.

But I've been trying to better myself. It hasn't been easy, but I'm getting a lot of help from my therapist. From my uncle. From Sherlock. I'm slowly getting there.

* * *

One thing that helped lift my spirits a bit is that I won a bet against Sherlock the other day.

We wagered on how long it would take for my uncle John and his then girlfriend, Sarah Sawyer, to break up, and who would be the one to call it quits.

On paper, it sounds terrible— to make bets on someone's love life. But I admit that in practice, it's downright hilarious. Sherlock went in thinking he knew how basic relationships worked and lasted down to a science, judging by the participants' commitment to each other, their habits, and their overall expectations with each other.

Well, sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I had the advantage of you: I know how my uncle works down to a science.

Now my wallet is seventeen quid thirty heavier.

I will admit that around the end, I was starting to like Sarah. I mean, she was nice enough. And she and John are at least remaining friends, and being professional with each other at the clinic. That's good, I guess. But I'm most likely not going to see her again.

Oh, well.

To my complete surprise, though, Sherlock was a pretty good sport about losing. I thought he'd at least shoot up the wall again in frustration. But no. If anything, he was just amused by the whole thing.

And perhaps this is just wishful thinking on my part, but I think he was actually proud of me for winning.

No. That can't be it. He's too…I don't know. He's too Sherlock.

I know that seems vague, but if you spend just five minutes with the man alone, you'd understand what I mean.

If there is one thing I know for sure that Sherlock is good at, it's keeping me distracted.

He's been telling me all about some of the cases he's been working on. I usually just sit there and listen, but occasionally he'd ask for an opinion on something. Sometimes, I'd answer him on paper, but other times, I think he just likes talking to someone— throwing his ideas and theories around without having to worry about the recipient making a stupid remark.

I've recently become aware that before Uncle John and I came around, he'd talk to his skull, Billy.

I'm the live, fuller version of Billy now, apparently.

I don't really mind, though. It's like I wrote days ago, I'm starting to like the attention.

Another thing Sherlock's been doing to keep me busy is that he's been letting me help with some of his experiments.

Earlier today, he brought in another head from Bart's morgue. He wanted to measure the amount of ear wax build-up after death. He even let me name the head this time.

It's BoJack.

Note to self, though: Be extra careful how close you get the Bunsen burner to the facial hair and small ear canal, especially when Sherlock already poured a questionable, self-brewed liquid into it. Good thing we were both wearing protective gear.

Chemistry/kitchen lab safety 101.

Poor BoJack. Hope his left eye is enjoying the view on the ceiling.

I have to go. Sherlock's yelling up the stairs at me to help him finish cleaning up the mess before my uncle gets home.

Don't want that lecture. Again.

 _With all due respect,_

 _Harley Watson_


	5. May 13

_May 13_

Quick update on the BoJack Tragedy: We managed to clear all evidence of the incident before my uncle returned; he doesn't suspect a thing. Sherlock made me promise to take this "scientific act of trial and error" to my grave.

Ha! He's just scared of John's wrath.

Well, granted, I am too. But still…an idea is suddenly forming in my head from this experience.

Starts with a "B".

Rhymes with "Clackmail".

 _With all due respect...and with an evil plot in mind,_

 _Harley Watson_


	6. May 15

_May 15_

It's just occurred to me that I have yet to write about the single most important aspect of this journal: myself.

Where to start?

My name is Harley— that was established since page one, and I'm a Caucasian female. I have grey eyes. My hair's a darkish blonde, and is usually curly when long; however, I had to cut it short a few months ago because a classmate from my old school stuck some chewed gum in it. It was so embarrassing. I'm just glad that it's finally growing out again.

I'm a little on the short side, but I like to think it's just because I haven't quite finished my growth spurt yet. I've started to gain a little weight since moving in with my uncle, due to being fed more whole meals from the landlady downstairs, Mrs. Hudson, and just overall eating better and being more active. So my body's getting fuller. I guess that's a good thing, depending on who you're asking. I definitely needed it when I left the hospital, that's for sure.

That's pretty much everything about me physical appearance-wise. That way, if anyone finds this, they'll know who to look for.

Right before I whack them upside the head for reading it.

I love to read, write, watch movies, and lately Mrs. Hudson has been teaching me how to knit. It's surprisingly relaxing. I've also been taken to solving puzzles and challenging myself intellectually, courtesy of Sherlock. I love settling into a nice comfy chair by the fireplace when it gets quiet, wearing a warm jumper and reading a good book with a cup of tea on the side.

I love strawberry flavored jam, Nutella, and Italian food. I love coffee, in which I've been informed might not be good for me at my age. Too late. The addiction has set in. No curing me now.

I'm also allergic to shellfish.

I'm currently twelve years old. My birthday is February 19. My birth mother is Harriet Watson. I don't know who my birth father is. I was conceived via sperm donor. For the first twelve years of my life, I lived in Bristol with my mother and her wife, Clara Banes.

But it didn't work out too well, as you can easily gather.

Now I'm living in London with my uncle— my mother's brother— John Watson, and his flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. Uncle John was once a member of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, serving as an army doctor in the war in Afghanistan, until he was shot in the shoulder and sent back to England. Right now he's just working as a practical doctor. Sherlock, on the other hand, solves crimes for a living, and John assists him when he's not at the surgery.

And yes, I get the irony of going from living with two women, to living with two men, thank you very much. Difference is that they're just friends and colleagues; my uncle is straight, and Sherlock is…asexual? I think? I don't really know, but I don't really care either.

I'm getting used to living with them pretty well. Between those two, there's no such thing as an ordinary day.

Did I forget to mention that I haven't spoken in the last six years?

Yep. Mutism— it's a real doozy.

For a long time, I along with everyone else thought it was selective— that I was this way simply because I've suffered from severe social anxiety my whole life. Even back when I _could_ talk, I didn't do it as often as the average kid at my age, especially not in public or with strangers, only speaking in soft tones and whispers. School was complete hell— well, not _complete_ ; I still got pretty good grades, and it was one of two places I could read all the books I wanted.

It's like this: you know that feeling you get when you're about to make a speech in class, or about to go on stage and perform? When all the worst-case scenarios start rolling through your head? That you will inevitably say or do the wrong thing, and everyone will laugh at you? And you start to feel your chest tighten, your throat close up, and like you're going to be sick to your stomach?

Well, imagine feeling all of that every second of every day when forced to go out and socialize. Not a pretty picture, is it?

The entire world is my stage, and all eyes on me are the glaring spotlights, but that is the very last thing I want.

So yes, perhaps I _was_ selectively mute at one point. But then it went more into the traumatic territory, and I stopped speaking entirely.

I believe I mentioned the reason before. I'm not mentioning it again, for the sake of my hand and my wall.

I didn't even try to say anything for years, not even to my family. Not only was I socially deprived in school, but I hardly ever showed any emotion. Not as much as the other kids, at least. It seemed like nothing I _ever_ did was right. I felt shut out. This led a lot of people who examined me to believe that I was developing sociopathic tendencies. I hated that. I can still feel. I can still be passionate about things. I was just careful with how I expressed myself.

But, as mentioned before, in the light of recent events, I decided that I want to try to talk again. To better myself.

Dr. Malone told me that just being around my loved ones is a good start to opening myself up more. Spending time with them. Doing regular tasks with them.

So far, I think it's working.

I noticed that ever since I first came to London, I was gradually becoming more expressive, more involved, and overall more open to the people around me. And the sole reason for that is because they don't treat me like some sort of mental case or a freak. They talk to me, they let me do things with them, and they trust me. In their eyes, I'm…normal.

I have to admit, it's a really good feeling. It's the best I've felt in forever.

I just hope that it stays that way.

 _With all due respect,_

 _Harley Watson_


	7. May 18

_May 18_

So Mycroft stopped by today. That happened.

Nothing quite like being subjected to blank, judgmental stares, awkward silences, and insincere compliments— asking me how I'm doing and how I liked living with his "intransigent little brother." As if he didn't already know all the answers. The spying creep in his fancy suits and umbrella. But he mostly came by to ask Sherlock to take care of some national matter and the fate of the free world depended on it and the Prime Minister himself would be most grateful and I really don't give a rat's arse about this subject anymore so I'm just going to stop.

Because helping Mycroft worked out _sooo_ well last time.

I'm starting to believe that he's actually a robot programmed by someone from the future, and he was sent back to eradicate all happiness and bring order to an uprising totalitarian society.

I told Sherlock this afterwards, and he just laughed and said that I wasn't too far from the truth. This does not quench my suspicions.

Okay, okay. I shouldn't be too hard on the guy. He has feelings, too…I'm certain. Like, 26% certain he does.

Plus, from what I heard, he did actually take the time to help out with all the crap that went down after the pool incident. And not only that, he also vouched for Uncle John and ensured that he'd get custody over me.

So I guess if it wasn't for him, I probably wouldn't be here.

Well, great. I hope he doesn't start hanging that over my head, getting me to spy on Sherlock for him. I mean, my taxes are going to pay his (already ridiculous) salary! What more does he want?

I swear, these Holmes'. At least with Sherlock, though, I somewhat know what to expect out of him.

Mycroft Holmes, you are an enigma that I have yet to decipher.

 _With all due respect,_

 _Harley Watson_


	8. May 19

_May 19_

At my therapy session today, Dr. Malone was impressed with my progress in this journal, and she asked if it was okay for her to suggest prompts for me to write. Just a little something to help keep the creative process going. It seemed like a good idea. I answered, _Go for it._

The first prompt she gave me was easy: just write about someone in my family— what they're currently doing, their habits, their personality, and my overall opinion of them.

Okay, then.

Let's discuss my uncle John.

Uncle John has been logging a lot of hours at the surgery lately, working overtime and filling in for co-workers who took time off. It's great that he's doing what he loves and is getting paid more. Before he got the job, he was mostly living off of his Army pension, and I remember him reluctantly asking Sherlock for a help in paying the rent my first week at their flat. One thing people should know about my uncle, is that while he's kind and helpful, he can also be very stubborn and prideful sometimes. I think it goes back to when he was invalidated from Afghanistan. He didn't want anyone to think that he was some walking (read: limping) charity when he came home, and hardly accepted help, especially not from my mother. But I think living with Sherlock has mellowed him a little about that. He's definitely happier, I can tell, and it doesn't hurt that Sherlock helped prove that his limp was psychosomatic; now he hardly limps at all. It's also good to see that he's making an honest living by himself.

At the same time, though, I miss him when he's at work.

I've mostly been spending my time with Sherlock during the day, and I only get to see Uncle John either if I stay up late at night until he comes home, or on his rare days off. Don't get me wrong, I love spending time with Sherlock (most of the time). But still…John is my uncle. He's, well…he's always been there for me, even in those bad times when I felt like no one was. Like I mentioned before, he's kind and helpful. He's warm, caring, loyal, and has a high morale. But he's also not a pushover, and is hard to intimidate. That's probably why Sherlock was so taken with him the first time they met, and became flatmates and friends overnight.

I sometimes forget just how much Uncle John and I have in common, too. Remember how I wrote that he was shot in Afghanistan and sent back to England? Well, after he came back, he was in his own dark place, like where I was when I was in the hospital. He had recurring nightmares about the war. He wasn't eating much. He saw a therapist who recommended he start keeping a blog— much like how I was recommended keeping a journal. At first, he wasn't keen on the idea. Then he met Sherlock Holmes. Now he's doing a lot better for himself. And he's helping me do better for myself, too. Because he knows what it's like to feel so alone, and he doesn't want anyone else to feel that way.

I don't have a lot of family extensive-wise, and the ones I do have are not very…approving of my mother's "lifestyle". And me? I'm just a doomed product of my mother's sinful nature in their eyes. So, yeah…no real love lost there. But Uncle John? Even though he has his own problems, he always made time for me. He loves me for who I am, no matter where I come from, or what's wrong with me. He's probably the closest thing I'll ever have to something like a father.

John Watson is, by definition, the whole package.

The world could stand to have more John Watsons.

 _With all due respect,_

 _Harley Watson_


	9. May 23

_May 23_

Remember in my last entry, when I mentioned Uncle John working a lot more than he usually did?

Well, apparently, he's been doing _such_ a good job that his higher-ups had noticed, and decided to send him, along with a co-worker, off to attend a medical conference….

…in Brussels.

So he's going to be out of town for a few days, meaning I won't be able to see him in the meantime.

Ha. Ha. H

Sorry, my pen broke, unexpectedly. Had to get my spare.

Note to self: buy more durable pens. Also, clean up the ink.

Today was the day Uncle John was scheduled to leave. I spent the afternoon helping him pack, while he constantly promised me that he will message me the second the plane lands. And if I ever need him, he's only a text away, and he'll come right back.

As much as I'd like that, he also needs this job. I couldn't do that to him.

Damn it, why is it so hard to do things you don't want to do?!

Uncle John spent about half an hour of the time before he left for his flight going over things with Sherlock. Just the basic stuff, really. My scheduled appointments with Dr. Malone, the best times for me to eat meals, my allergies, make sure I don't stay up too late, don't bring me to a homicide crime scene, etc. Sherlock insisted that he got all of it, but of course, Uncle John went over everything with him anyway. Because Uncle John is a worrying mother hen and Sherlock is Sherlock.

It's nauseatingly cute, what those two have going. I'm starting to see what Mrs. Hudson, and others, are talking about.

I do feel that this part of the conversation warranted documenting. It's just too good, and Sherlock's reaction was priceless:

John: "Make sure she's taking her vitamins in the mornings. I keep them in the pantry above the stove— the ones shaped like dinosaurs. Give her at least two a day."

Sherlock: "Why in the world are they dinosaur-shaped?!"

John, after an awkwardly long pause: "Dinosaurs are cool."

Well, he's not wrong.

So now Uncle John's gone. It's currently 10:03 pm. John sent me a text saying he landed safely and checked into the hotel, as promised, about an hour ago. One good thing about this new phone I got, it sends and receives messages a lot faster than my old one, which was reaching the point of practically being on life support by the time I lost it (which is a miracle in disguise, considering previously mentioned criminal was sending me messages on it).

It's mostly quiet here now. I'm not hearing any activity downstairs. That must mean Sherlock is actually sleeping, for once. That, or he's just sitting in his chair with that thousand-yard stare, as he tends to do sometimes.

I better enjoy the peace and quiet while I can. Because if I know Sherlock, that's going to change.

Not that Uncle John needs to know that, of course.

 _With all due respect,_

 _Harley Watson_


	10. May 24

_May 24_

Oh, Christ.

I didn't think it would happen so fast.

Sorry that my handwriting is really sloppy here. It's actually a quarter after four in the morning as I write this— not like my usual routine, when I write at the end of the day. I've been up for the last half hour, just sitting in the dark and trying to calm myself down without waking up Sherlock.

I had a nightmare. A nightmare that starred Jim Moriarty. And it was horrible. It's been two months, but I can still see him every time I close my eyes— see those dark, dead eyes and that deranged smile. And hear his soft, yet snarling voice echoing everywhere around me as I'm trapped in that dark room with him again.

Oh, God. I think I'm losing it. I know Dr. Malone said that writing about stuff like this would help relieve the stress, but it's not working. Usually whenever I have night terrors, Uncle John is here with me, and he makes me feel better. But he's not here.

I hate this.

I hate this.

I hate this.

* * *

Wow.

To be honest, I can't quite recall writing down most of that from earlier this morning, especially around the end. I went into a bit of a panic-induced state right after that.

Definitely not one of my proudest moments.

Don't worry. I'm good now. Luckily for me, Sherlock was the only one who was witness to the episode. Well, maybe not so lucky, but hey, at least no one else saw it. Right?

I guess I wasn't as quiet as I thought I was, because it wasn't very long into my panic attack that Sherlock came in. When I was myself again, the first thing I saw was Sherlock sitting right in front of me on the bed, hands gripping on my shoulders, and his face was earnest, his jaw tight. I think I actually scared him, which is strange because _nothing_ scares Sherlock. At the least, he does a very good job of not showing it. How I envy his ability to do so.

Anyway, after I snapped out of it, and in helping me get my breathing under control, he simply looked me in the eye, and he told me that I dreamt about the incident. Not a question, but a statement of fact.

That's one of the good things about Sherlock: he doesn't pry for answers, because he already knows. He's that observant.

But that didn't make the situation any less embarrassing.

Sherlock didn't say anything else after that, though. Instead, he led me downstairs to the living room, where he had me sit on the couch with a blanket around me, while he quietly made me a cup of tea the way I liked it. Then he took out his violin and played this weird, German lullaby. It was kind of odd, but it was also…nice. And it did help calm me down— enough for me to fall asleep again right there on the couch, this time without any bad dreams. After that, I felt so much better.

The rest of the day was spent with Sherlock. He kept getting phone calls from Lestrade, but he would only dismiss the DI, saying that the cases he was offering were "dull" or "boring" or "not worth wasting any brain cells on". Not really sure if that's true or not, only using those excuses to stay home and watch me, but either way, the day mostly consisted of me helping Sherlock with another one of his experiments— a _much safer_ experiment, involving a few big toes and a dash of citric acid.

I'm back in my room alone for the night, but before I turned in earlier, Sherlock told me that he'll just be down there if I need him. Even now, I can hear him playing softly on his violin, tuning a melody I don't recognize. Probably a score of his own. I wouldn't be surprised if he composed music in his spare time with his gift for improvisation.

That's another thing about Sherlock— well, a lot of things, really. He's not your typical go-to shoulder to cry on. He's definitely not one for hugging, cuddling, or anything to do with outbursts of affection. But that's okay. I'm not really much of a hugger myself unless it's with someone I'm particularly close to, like Uncle John (he does give the best hugs). With Sherlock, though, despite his aloofness, he just…he just _knows_ what I need, even without all the sappy stuff. Maybe that's enough. For the sake of the next few days while it's just me and him, I really hope it is.

 _With all due respect,_

 _Harley Watson_


	11. May 25

_May 25_

Last night was better. Not great, but better. It was just a matter of not getting enough sleep— mostly because I was just terrified I'd have another nightmare.

I'm not reluctant to admit that I have a lot of emotional baggage. First step to solving your problem is acknowledging you have one, right?

Right.

Anyway, the clients started rolling in again today. Sherlock doesn't just help the police with crimes. He'll help pretty much anyone who comes in with a problem if it's interesting enough. He's like a private investigator. Holmes, P.I.

Ha, now I'm imagining him in a Hawaiian shirt with a Selleck mustache. I know that sounds ridiculous, but from the stories Uncle John has told me, he's been in weirder disguises for cases in the past.

He doesn't just solve cases for the money, though. No, no. He does it because it excites him; it's intellectually stimulating to him. He loves solving cases. The more difficult and tragic, the better. (Of course, money is good too. We gotta get food somehow).

What, you thought he helped people out of the goodness of his heart because it's just the right thing to do?

Nah. He just likes it.

Watching him today, though, was interesting; seeing him listen to every person's problems with upmost rapture, unless he deems it boring. Then he just shoos them out of the flat without a second thought.

You wouldn't believe how many clients came in, male and female, asking Sherlock to spy on their "significant other" because they thought they were cheating on them.

Eighteen. I counted eighteen.

The trust these people have for each other is astounding.

Sherlock and I just looked at each other as the last one that came through, a woman, went on and on that her husband might be having an affair, until Sherlock simply said, "Sure." Could you tell he was at the end of his already short supply of patience? There was a lot of yelling involved after that.

Sherlock definitely reached the end of his rope after that one. Just ten minutes ago, he threw on his coat and stormed out of the flat, muttering to me about going to bother Lestrade for a case.

I guess I should be bothered that he just up and left me by myself, but my mother has done that way too many times to me before that I'm now desensitized to it. At least Sherlock had the decency to tell me where he was going, and I know he's not coming home wasted off his arse.

I hope.

* * *

He just came back. Three hours later. Not drunk (or high, going by what Mycroft told me), thank God. He was still pretty moody, though. So I'm assuming whatever Lestrade offered him, it just wasn't enough.

Give the poor man a triple homicide with barely any leads, for God's sake.

I need to do something to cure him from his boredom soon. Before he does something drastic.

Oh, no.

He's getting out the revolver.

Gotta go.

 _With all due respect,_

 _Harley Watson_


	12. May 26

_May 26_

Okay, so we may or may not have three or five more bullets in our living room wall now. And one up our chimney. I don't know how he even accomplished that last one.

Ballistic anomaly aside, I did manage to find Sherlock something to keep himself busy while the crime rates are down and there are no bodies in the morgue for him to experiment on.

Board games!

Yeah. The greatest intellectual mind I've ever met. Pacified by board games.

It was just lucky that Uncle John still had all of his old games from when I stayed over at his place years ago. So, after digging them out of the closet, today was spent playing different games to keep Sherlock from going crazy, and it was…interesting. Why? Because varied games come with varied results from Sherlock.

Rummikub — An old favorite of mine. It will always keep me busy for hours on end. Sherlock, not so much. While it kept him quiet for a good thirty-five minutes or so, he quickly grew bored of it. Oh well, people have different tastes, I guess.

Scrabble — Now _that_ was a fun time. With my book smarts and Sherlock's extensive knowledge on…pretty much anything he thinks is important, we bent the rules a bit to make it a battle for who could put the longest words together in crossword fashion the most. We played that on and off for hours.

Monopoly — I could take it or leave it. Sherlock too. We both got tired of it after just twenty minutes.

Chess — Sherlock's idea, not mine. He won every game. I wouldn't have minded if he wasn't so damn smug about it. I assume he always lost to his brother and is just happy to finally win against someone now. He suggests it again, and I'll invite Mycroft over for tea.

Operation — NO.

Jenga — Left me frustrated and stressed out more than any other game. How does he know which exact block to push/pull out and keep it standing?! HOW?! He _had_ to have been cheating! Don't tell me you can't cheat at that game! Because he did somehow! Damn him!

Overall…I had a great time. Considering how things have been lately, it was refreshing to have some laid back fun for a while. If he doesn't get a case again tomorrow, I'll have something to look forward to.

 _With all due respect,_

 _Harley Watson_


	13. May 29

_May 29_

God, I'm exhausted. And sore. And probably in need of another shower.

I didn't exactly get that second day of board game playing like I'd hoped. Sherlock finally found himself a case like he always wanted, and you can bet my mentally unsound arse he solved it. And by him, I mean us, because when Uncle John's not around, _someone_ has to fill in for Billy, who's too busy being mantel décor.

It all started a couple of days ago when Sherlock burst into Dr. Malone's office, during one of my therapy sessions, and practically _dragged_ me out of there, only vaguely telling us that he needed me for an essential part of the case he'd been working on for hours.

Which, in the psychiatric field, is very frowned upon. At least that's what I got from the look on Dr. Malone's face.

Note to self: Steal Sherlock's wallet to pay compensation to Dr. Malone.

All that embarrassment aside, he took me to the scene of the crime he was investigating, at an old and run-down flat. I'm too worn-out to remember all the details, but to put it short: There was a double murder, and the police were having trouble finding out who did it (don't worry, Uncle John, if you're somehow reading this. The bodies were already taken away long before I arrived).

Going into the room, I saw that there was definitely a struggle by the overturned chair, scattered magazines, and spilled ashtray. Where one of the bodies was was a disturbing amount of blood for me to see. I stayed far enough away from that specific area while Sherlock did a double check around the place, with Detective Inspector Lestrade keeping me company. It was great to see Lestrade again. I haven't seen him all that much since I left the hospital. He's always very nice to me, and he's funny.

Although, I can't exactly say the same for some of his colleagues on the force— particularly two of them that _really_ don't get along with Sherlock, named Donovan and Anderson. On the one hand…yeah, I can see why they wouldn't like Sherlock. He _can_ be difficult to work with. Even Uncle John knows that. But on the other hand, it's the way they go about it that seems a little unprofessional, like how they call him names like freak, and especially when they tend to shift some of that hostility towards me and John— just because we can actually stand to be in the same room with Sherlock. The two officers aren't as bad as they were when I first met them (I assume Lestrade had a word with them), but I can tell that that bit of resentment still lingers from the way they look at me sometimes. I've gone over things like this many times with Uncle John and Dr. Malone, and they tell me that it's best to ignore people like them. Or even be the bigger person by being nice because they just don't understand the bigger picture, and whether they want to try to is up to them. "Prejudice is just a harsher word for ignorance," is the way Dr. Malone put it. I suppose she's right, but I'm just going to ignore them for the time being.

Anyway, while Sherlock was looking around, Lestrade informed him that one of the victims was killed by stab wounds, while the other's head was bashed multiple times. Lestrade said that the killer had used a knife on one, and then a blunt object on the other. However, after making sure he'd observed everything, Sherlock countered with the conclusion that the murderer only had one weapon: the knife, but in the struggle between the three of them, the knife was knocked away, so while the first victim bled to death from the stab wounds, the killer bashed the second victim's head several times against the concrete floor, hence all of the blood and traces of pulled out hair all over that one area.

Just as Anderson was saying how ridiculous that theory was, claiming that they've found no trace of a knife in the room, Sherlock pointed out small specks of blood across the room, showing the knife's trajectory, leading all the way to an air vent in the floor— with enough space through the grates for a small object to fall through.

And this part is where I come in. Sherlock took me downstairs to the floor below, unscrewed one of the vents, and told me that I was just small enough to fit through and find the murder weapon.

He pulled me out of my therapy…to crawl through wall space. He seriously couldn't have just called up the contractor of the building? Tear down one of the walls, maybe?

After about a minute of incredulous staring and much negotiation, I put on some gloves and proceeded to squeeze and squirm my way through a dark, disgusting, enclosed hole with only a tiny flashlight to look where I was going. Why did I let myself get talked into doing something so demeaning? Sherlock gave me an offer I couldn't refuse: ice cream afterwards. JayJay's Place on 44th street makes the best hot fudge sundaes.

I was in the walls for about thirty minutes. Maybe forty? It felt like hours. Got stuck a couple of times. It didn't help that I was crawling through so many dust bunnies and flakes of dead skin. At one point, my hand landed on a thick, smelly clump, which I'm 99% sure was a dead rat. I didn't even look back to find out. I'm gagging just thinking about it. Who knows when that building was cleaned last?

I eventually did make it to the area where Sherlock calculated the weapon would've landed. And what do you know, I did find it: a kitchen knife, covered in dried up blood. There was something else lying a few feet from it: a bronze ring with a lion engraved on the centerpiece, like the kind you buy at universities. It must've slipped off either the murderer's or the victim's finger in the struggle. I quickly grabbed them, put them in an evidence bag, and retraced my route back to where I came in. When I got out, I was covered in so much dust (and what I'd hoped to God wasn't rodent turds, and ended up very disappointed), it looked like I had a little cloud wafting around me.

Lestrade called me Pig-Pen. He's lucky he's endearing.

Despite that, the look Sherlock had when I handed over the bag, you'd think I gave him a meaningful Christmas gift. After a brief insulting match between Sherlock and Anderson, Sherlock decided to take the evidence to St. Bart's for further analyzation. My session with Dr. Malone was long over by that time anyway, so we figured I might as well tag along. We had to take the tube, though. None of the cabs would take us because I was so dirty and smelled like literal crap.

Sherlock said I'd make a great addition to his homeless network. He's not so endearing. I punched him.

Thank God St. Bart's had sanitary areas in their labs. I cleaned myself up and beat as much dust off my clothes as I could while Sherlock did what he did best: observe and find what most others don't.

Had a brief run-in with Molly Hooper while we were there. She's probably the nicest, sweetest lady I've ever met— besides maybe Mrs. Hudson— which kind of contradicts the fact that she works in the morgue and often makes jokes about it. Weird combination, I know, but I still like her. I'm not sure if Sherlock is aware that she fancies him or not, but either way, I wish he'd be a little nicer to her. No one else in that hospital is willing to work with him, after all.

After evaluating the evidence at St. Bart's and going over all his research of the case, Sherlock figured out who the killer was, and we set off. The rest of the time was basically me and Sherlock running around all of the central and west district of London, hunting for a murderer on the run. Sherlock had his network of street people on the watch for him, which helped narrow down our search a lot, but the killer kept on evading us. He was a fast one.

We _finally_ managed to get one step ahead of him after several hours of goose-chasing. Sherlock calculated the next place he'd most likely hide in: in the dark slums of one of the not-so-pretty parts of the city. I should note that by the time we got there, I was so exhausted and filthy again— not to mention righteously irritated at how my day had been going. So I wasn't exactly on the defense when the killer suddenly lunged out of the darkness and slammed me up against the wall, one hand gripping my hair hard.

Everything else after that happened so fast and in a blur. He was only on me for a second— about to do who knows what— before Sherlock _tackled_ him! I emphasize my disbelief here because Sherlock, despite being six foot even, was a scrawny-looking thing. This killer was a _boar_. And Sherlock tackled him to the ground like a pro rugby player! I mean, I've seen him in action before, but I'm still surprised by what he's capable of. He may not be so bulky, but I have to hand it to him, the man's got a strength that no one would expect upon first impressions.

I was in so much shock from what happened, I can barely recall exactly what happened immediately after. But from the sounds of several blows and pained cries I heard during, and how the murderer looked like he got hit by a car afterwards...it's safe to assume that Sherlock beat him to a pulp. He definitely wasn't going anywhere by the time Sherlock was done with him. We had no trouble keeping him under wraps while we waited for Lestrade to arrive.

The DI and his team finally came and got him while Sherlock explained everything— who the killer was and his motivation for murdering those two people. Apparently it was a revenge homicide— something to do with the two victims getting the killer discredited and fired from his job. He fully realized their affiliation from the ring I found in the vents. I'm sure if Uncle John was there at the time, he'd type up an engaging, romanticized story of the case on his blog and slap a clever title on top of it. Me? I was too tired and bedraggled to care by then and just wanted to go home.

But first, I made sure a certain someone held up his end of the bargain.

It may not be well-advised to go out for ice cream so late at night, specifically after nearly getting done in by a psycho killer (and still leaving faint trails of dust and rat feces wherever you walked). But I gotta admit, it can be very rewarding. Good thing the manager of JayJay's was a past client of Sherlock's and didn't mind us. In fact, our desserts were on the house.

Just how many restaurant entrepreneurs owe Sherlock favors? I hope a lot. My appetite's been growing these days thanks to Mrs. Hudson— who, speaking of, was none too thrilled to see us in our conditions when we got back. She means well.

I'm just glad that things have calmed down for the most part by now. And I'm especially glad that Uncle John's finally home. The night before, he texted me as he was packing up, asking how we were doing and if everything was all right.

So I sent him a selfie of me and Sherlock, with the bloodied up murderer being read his rights in the background.

And that's why he took the fastest plane route possible, and why I'm confined to only the flat and Dr. Malone's office— plus Sherlock's banned from experiments— for a week.

Other than that, I am so relieved to have him back. Not just because I missed him, but I never realized how much John makes everything not so chaotic around here. Not entirely tranquil, but just enough to where everything doesn't completely spiral out of control. Seriously, the past few days without him around have probably been the most stressful I've been in weeks. Even just playing board games with Sherlock was a bit of a hassle! If John were ever to go away permanently, I'm sure one or both of us would end up losing a limb or worse.

Uncle John, you keep us right.

 _With all due respect,_

 _Harley Watson_


	14. June 5

_June 5_

Earlier today, while I was helping Mrs. Hudson with some cleaning around the flat, I came across an old maths packet from school— one I was given to work on for extra credit while on my spring break a few months ago. Man, that feels like so long ago now.

However, when I was idly flipping through the pages, a thought suddenly occurred to me: what am I going to do about school now? I mean, we're all off on summer holiday now, but I still missed the last two months of my semester with all that went down recently. How am I going to make that up? I can't possibly go back to my old school in Bristol. That's over two hours away by train.

I asked Uncle John about this when he got home, and he said not to worry about it right now, that I should focus more on feeling better first— in which he complimented on how well I was adjusting so far (I mean, despite the occasional episodes, but no healing process is smooth). He assured me that we will look into enrolling me in a nearby school when autumn comes around, but in the meantime, I should enjoy this time to myself.

He's right, of course— he always is about things like this. But part of me is still concerned about the concept of going back to school, and another part is positively terrified of the concept of going to a _new_ school. I have no idea how that's going to turn out, especially given my track record at my old school. The academic part of it was fine; I like to learn new things. It was the social interacting part that I had a problem with.

I tried to get by there, be a good student. I really did. I mean, I was the quiet one. I should've never been able to draw so much attention to myself. But a hard lesson that I learned a long time ago was that some kids— and even the rare few adults— are just plain cruel. How many times have I been harassed, ridiculed in class, shoved, my things stolen? And how many times have the culprits gotten away with it because they knew I wasn't going to tell on them and defend myself? Too many to count.

It really pissed me off.

My mother, in one of her better days, even went and complained to the faculty about it. Sure, they were sympathetic and all, but you can tell that they just…didn't care. It was like, "Sorry, but if you're going to be different and hard to work with, you're just going to be miserable here. Nothing we can do about that."

Thinking about all of that now, I suppose I should feel glad to have moved away, to never have to go back that school and see those horrible people again. But for some reason, I'm not. All I feel is anger and regret, and I don't know why.

Why do I feel this way? What's wrong with me?

 _With all due respect,_

 _Harley Watson_


	15. June 7

_June 7_

Well, I figured out why I feel so conflicted about not going back to my old school. Dr. Malone really is the best psychiatrist I've ever had. I told her about my fears of going to a new school next autumn, how I was treated back in Bristol, and how I feel about leaving it all behind.

She was quiet at first when I finished my explanation. Then she suggested that the reason I might be feeling this way could be because I have this notion that by moving way, the bullies and everyone who treated me unfairly have gotten what they wanted: to get rid of me.

At first, I was confused and skeptical of this, but the more I think about it, the more I believe that she's right.

I feel like, to them, I simply ran away, which is precisely what they wanted me to do. I never had the courage to stand up for myself. I never confronted anyone who tormented me, or called them out. Instead, I let those bullies chase me away. They won.

It's one of the worst feelings in the world, when you leave someone toxic behind with the mindset that they were right about you.

And the more I mull it over, the more I picture my own mother, and how even in the good times, in the end…I felt like I was just a burden to her. And now that I'm with Uncle John, it's like she doesn't have to worry or care about me anymore. One less burden to carry.

I don't feel better about this. I don't know if I ever will. Perhaps one day, when I'm braver, I'll go back and face my bullies— my demons. Get rid of all of this regret and shame.

But I do know one thing now: when the next semester starts up again, whichever school I go to, I will refuse to be the victim. I will not let anyone chase me away anymore. If there's one thing I learned while living with my uncle and Sherlock, it's that you can't run away from your problems or fears forever— because eventually they will catch up with you. So the best you can do is to face them head-on, no matter what happens. And if it turns out badly, you'll always have the people who care about you to lean on. Luckily for me, I have them now.

For my loved ones, I will try to be strong.

 _With all due respect,_

 _Harley Watson_


	16. June 15

_June 15_

Uncle John and Sherlock are starting to become more famous.

I only mention this because I'm getting annoyed at the amount of people who keep stopping by the flat.

Seriously. The last couple of weeks. Client after client. In and out. Boom. Boom. Lather, rinse, and repeat.

Most of the clients we've been getting were— you guessed it— people who believe their spouses are having an affair. It was really getting to Sherlock. So much so that by the time the last one came around, he snapped at me to shut up. I was literally just sitting at the dining table, writing in my notebook.

You know he's frustrated when he tells the mute to stop writing so loudly.

Once in a while, we get the weirdest requests. Not enough to actually work on, mind you, but they were just…well, here's an example:

There was this one guy who came in with an urn, proclaiming that the ashes in there were not his aunt— that she's been replaced. "I know human ash," he insisted.

I couldn't make this up if I wanted to. Sherlock at least had the sense not to humour the man and forced him to leave.

Another interesting client who came by was in the form of a man in an expensive suit, with two huge bodyguards. I judged that he was either an important businessmen or politician. Either way, probably not an easy fix. They asked for Sherlock to retrieve some stolen files in return for a hefty sum of money. Sherlock wasn't impressed one bit, which I was relieved by. Past experience teaches me: Cases involving government officials or scandals = bad. And by extension: Mycroft stopping by for a favor = bad.

The less involved I get with those types of problems, the better.

So most of the potential clients that have come by were either quickly dismissed, or solved right there on the spot, without Sherlock ever having to leave the chair.

The only one that actually piqued Sherlock's interest and got us out of the flat was yesterday, when three young men came in. They have a website about a series of comic books— I'm sorry, _graphic novels_ , the guy insisted— about a superhero organization called KRATIDES, and that recently they've been seeing their characters in the real world; that the comics were starting to come true.

I'm sure a lot of people know about it by now. It's all over the social media because of our involvement.

That ended up being a fun case to work on. I'm really glad Sherlock picked it instead of all the other ones. Uncle John and I usually do the research on cases, and this one involved us going to a comic shop. My uncle wasn't a huge fan of the place, but I admit that I found myself looking into some of its contents. I think I may have found another favorite shop to visit, albeit a new guilty pleasure. I'm also still in the process of reading all the comics on KRATIDES. It is a bit silly and the themes are a little too on-the-nose at times, but what else can you expect from comics? Graphic novels, whatever.

It turned out that the publishers of KRATIDES were behind all of the incidents, and their reasoning was merely for promotion, to up their sales on the comics. Kind of a letdown when it comes to motivation and conclusion, especially when you take into account that their plan ended up driving the author insane.

But I didn't come out of it unsatisfied. The end result involved me, Uncle John, and Sherlock dressing up as ninjas at one point and fighting a lone geek in Soho. I managed to snap some good photographs out of that, despite Uncle John and Sherlock's attempts to get out of frame.

Ha! More blackmail.

Also, as a thank you, the author and his colleagues gave me some of their old comic books after we solved the case.

How comforting to know that when I'm left with no intellectually stimulating novels to read, I can pacify myself with tales of _Doctor Strange._ Like I said, silly, but also a fun read.

Uncle John is starting to type up the case as I'm writing this. He's decided on calling the case, _The Geek Interpreter_. I had a bit of a dyslexic moment because for a second there, I thought it said Greek. Would've only made _slightly_ less sense, if you ask me.

I don't know where he gets these titles. Neither does Sherlock, going by the confused frown on his face as he's reading over John's shoulder.

He still has a lot to learn about us Watsons.

 _With all due respect,_

 _Harley Watson_


	17. June 21

_June 21_

Even though I haven't been in school in the past three months, academically, my mind has never been sharper these days.

That credit mostly goes to Sherlock Holmes.

I've written about him and his several odd plights in this journal already, but believe me when I confess that he is much more than that. When he's not shooting holes in the wall, making experiments explode, throwing board game pieces everywhere, or dragging me all over London in pursuit of criminal activity…wow that _is_ a lot of crazy stuff he does. But take all of that away, he truly is an extraordinary man.

I mentioned before that he, along with my uncle, are getting more well-known as a consulting detective, thanks to the publishing of our adventures on Uncle John's blog— something that Sherlock is none too proud of. He told me once that what he does is an exact science, that crime is common but logic is rare, and his work should focus more on the analytical reasoning instead of turning it into an entertaining series of tales for people to get a kick out of.

I believe that there is some unjust truth in that. It shows when you look at Sherlock's own website: _The Science of Deduction_ , where he can express his logistics. And I'm not seeing that getting any more popular than Uncle John's blog. In fact, it's starting to become a little dead with activity and feedback.

Poor guy.

Still, that doesn't discourage him from trying to improve the minds of anyone who is willing to listen to him. And I happen to be one of them.

On occasion, when neither of us is too busy with our strange and often hectic lives, we take time on the side to engage in activities that help strengthen our minds. Well, in actuality, _he_ is the one who presents me with problems that he himself already knows the answer to with his deductive reasoning, leaving me to try to solve them myself. He constantly insists that I make a habit of using my senses every single minute of the day, so that when there comes a time where I must solve a problem without his presence, I will be able to solve it with ease, with no one's help. He even gave me my own commonplace pocketbook some time ago. That way I may separate my findings from my other means of communication and expression.

The times he challenges me intellectually are usually when I least expect it, taking me off guard, but in the end, I indulge him to the best of my abilities. One example of this being about a week ago, when we were simply lounging in the living room one evening. Looking up from his book, he suddenly asked me if I had noticed that when the flat is cold, the carpeted floor in the sitting room feels warmer than the tiled floor in the bathroom. He then asked me why that is. After recovering from the out-of-nowhere trivia, I took some time to think of his question thoroughly, and with some gentle guidance from Sherlock, I eventually came to the conclusion of general thermal conductivity. Wool doesn't absorb heat as affectively as ceramic tiles, so when you step on carpet, your feet remain warm, while they quickly lose heat when you step on tiles.

That would explain why I've unconsciously chosen to wear socks when going to use the toilet early in the morning.

And that was a fairly easy puzzle in retrospect. Some of the questions he drops on me are way more difficult than that, and I have to pull out all the stops to solve them. They can be very frustrating, but the end result gives me a rather satisfied and triumphant feeling.

The only notable times I know when I'm eventually going to be put on the spot are when Sherlock is on a case— not much murder cases these days, mind, but seemingly unsolvable mysteries that even Scotland Yard can't solve— where he knows the answer, but he has me work my way to it on my own. Another time when I'm most prepared for his trials is when we go to Regent's Park and make observations on the people we see there. The park was the first place he engaged me in a game of deductions. Because of this, I've gradually grown to notice things about people upon first looking at them. I can now tell when someone was living alone, what sort of job they work at, their interests, or what kind of day they've been having so far.

To be frank, I think his methods have helped me a lot. Before I came to London, I never considered myself the smartest student in my school; there were just a few select topics that I was particularly knowledgeable about. Give me questions regarding our world's literary history, and I will confidently give you the answer from my past readings. Give me a long, algebraic equation, and I will break it down in several different ways and come up with the same answer each time, without the use of a calculator. Nowadays, with Sherlock's teachings, I'm adding other means of knowledge to my mind besides maths and reading: observation, logical analysis, scientific knowledge to go with mathematical, clear thinking, criminal behavior, and much more.

No one can say that I've gone slack in my education since moving in to 221B.

And the activities don't just benefit me, they benefit Sherlock too. It's a healthier alternative to relieving boredom than, say, _making a severed head dissolve and combust in the kitchen._ And regardless of what Sherlock does to maintain a cold, detached demeanor most of the time, I never cease to catch a hint of a warm, proud smile on his face during and at the end of our times together.

But for the sake of his public image, that can be just between the two of us.

 _With all due respect,_

 _Harley Watson_


	18. July 8

_July 8_

I've been on edge lately.

It's been about four months now since the incident. Therapy's been helpful. Uncle John and Mrs. Hudson have especially been supportive, even Sherlock in his own subtle ways. Even so, there are days where I feel like I'm taking two steps forward and a huge, bounding leap backwards. Days where not even Sherlock's puzzles, Mrs. Hudson's home-cooked meals, or outings with Uncle John can distract me from the barrage of stress and numbness I feel roaring throughout my body and mind. Just when I think I'm getting better, suddenly I'm back to where I was when I left the hospital— hell, sometimes I feel like I'm back _in_ the hospital, the day I woke up. I've been trying to go up to my room whenever I get like this, to work it out on my own, but my uncle— and everyone else it seems— refuses to let me go it alone. They make me stay, and make me tell them what's wrong and what they could do make it better. I'm not implying that they've been overbearing; they're just checking on me.

Constantly.

Okay, maybe they are overbearing. But in a good way…? I mean, they are just making sure that I'm doing okay.

Sometimes, though, I wish I could talk only to ask them how I can possibly be okay when I feel like I'm about to break apart.

I know why I've been backpedaling recently. I've tried to keep it to myself. I barely even bring it up much in this journal, but I have an inkling everyone else has already caught on; I _know_ Sherlock has. I still have that nightmare from time to time, you know the one, only changing ever so slightly but always has the same outcome of leaving me in a state. And it stems into me thinking and stressing nonstop over the fact that Jim Moriarty is still out there somewhere.

Who exactly is Jim Moriarty, you've probably been asking this whole time?

Oof.

He's…well, that's a very loaded question. But against my better judgement of even mentioning him, I'll tell you what I do know, if not to give me _some_ form of peace of mind.

· He was this guy Molly dated for like ten seconds.

· He was handsome and charming. I mean, if you're into the slick-back-hair-gel look.

· He was nice. He _seemed_ nice. At first.

· He not-so-subtly flirted at Sherlock in front of everyone.

· Suddenly he looked like a total sleaze.

· Molly dumped him. Good on her.

· While on a case with Sherlock, Uncle John and I were kidnapped by him.

· He turned out to be a maniacal criminal mastermind. A consulting criminal, he called himself.

· He was the one who'd kept sending secret messages to Sherlock, and to me. Who was putting lives in danger for the sake of playing his games.

· He tortured me. Broke me down physically and psychologically.

· I found out that he sponsored Clara's cover-up all those years ago.

· He disappeared after the confrontation at the pool. No one has seen or heard from him since then.

That's where we are now, and that's what's so damn terrifying: that someone like him is still gallivanting around in the world, untouchable, with so many people under his belt, free to do whatever horrible deed he wants to other unsuspecting victims. Who knows when he'll come back into our lives, and what he'll do?

Yes. _When_. It's not even a question of if. He's way too fixated on Sherlock to just let him go, and he's proven to not be above using other people who are close to Sherlock as leverage. We barely got out of his twisted schemes alive the first time, and only because he let us.

I know that there's nothing we can really do to stop it, but I can't help but wonder how we can just go on with our lives knowing that threat is still possible — even imminent. I guess if I look back on our experiences and drives, the best we _can_ do is to stay sharp and keep our feet up; be ready as we can ever be. Maybe that's why Uncle John tries so hard to keep me steadfast. Why Mrs. Hudson keeps me nourished. Why Sherlock keeps me quick-witted.

To make me ready.

But how ready can you possibly be when you're up against an unpredictable storm like Jim Moriarty?

 _With all due respect,_

 _Harley Watson_


	19. July 18

_July 18_

I think I may have found myself a new outlet.

I mentioned in my last entry about how stressed out and unraveled I've been, to the point where my usual hobbies like journaling, or reading— something that always helped keep me calm— did nothing to ease my nerves. It was clear that I needed to do something else to get rid of all my tensions. Even Dr. Malone had suggested that perhaps I should try a new activity— broaden my horizons, as some people put it— to help me.

It didn't take me very long to find one. Or rather, one was kind of thrust upon me by Sherlock when he found out about my worries regarding Moriarty, and I just sort of went along with it. No, it's not more challenging puzzles for me to solve. This one's more…on the physical side.

Fun fact: did you know that Sherlock is a trained boxer?

Me neither, but considering how many times he's gotten us out of scrapes against dangerous criminals in the past by straight-up beating the crap out of them, it would make sense that he's practiced some form of combat or even a martial art before, especially given how strong he is.

Now before you go all, "Oh wow! Sherlock is teaching you how to fight? That's awesome!" let me point out that we're not doing anything that intense yet, mostly because Uncle John got to us before that could happen. He says that before I jump right into all that, I should start small and work my way up; basically work on building up my strength, cardio, and stamina before I go all out on physical activities like that.

What a buzzkill.

Then again, he has a lot of experience when it comes to combat and self-defense training too. I mean, he _was_ in the army, after all. And it turned out he was right. Last week, Sherlock took me to a locally owned gym that he occasionally frequents, and we did some basic strength training regimens to see where I was fitness-wise: squats, sit-ups, push-ups, running, etc.

Well, despite my new eating habits and the amount of times I've run around London chasing Sherlock, I was completely out of breath and exhausted halfway through the routine, not to mention sore all over by the time I was finally finished.

At first I was discouraged by my lack of physical abilities, but the owner of the gym— a retired prizefighter who went by the name McMurdo— assured me that everyone starts out small when it comes to physical fitness, but as long as you keep at it, you'll be surprised by what your body is capable of.

McMurdo is a really nice guy for a buff gym trainer. He's an old friend of Sherlock from one of his earlier cases, which is probably why we were allowed to use his gym at such short notice (at this point I wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock is in a lot of entrepreneurs' favors). McMurdo told me that Sherlock once fought three rounds with him over four years ago and knocked him clean out with an unexpected cross-hit under the jaw.

At my astonished face, he laughed good-naturedly, "Surprising, eh? He's one of the finest bare-fist boxers in his weight category— or maybe _was_. Shame he wasted his gifts to be a detective. He'd have made it to the big leagues had he gone pro if you ask me."

Wow. Even after knowing Sherlock for almost five months, I still learn a lot of new things about him.

So Sherlock and I— and sometimes Uncle John when he has free time— have been visiting the gym as often as we can since that first visit. I've been doing a training routine that Sherlock and McMurdo made specifically for my current age and body type to start out with. And I have to admit that even though it can be painful and tiring and sweaty, I've grown a certain fondness and respect for physical fitness training. I don't know how to explain it, but pushing your body to its limits…there's nothing quite like it. Afterwards, I feel like all the stress I've been holding onto these past several months is slowly seeping out of me, and in turn I grow stronger every day, both in body _and_ mind. Now I know what they mean when they say they workout to "blow off steam."

(Sherlock definitely blew off some steam in the gym the other day after a particularly frustrating case he took recently, involving a murdered blonde with red speckles all over her body. That punching dummy never stood a chance).

It's weird because it's not like I haven't tried getting in shape before. I've taken the mandatory P.E. classes in school like everyone else, but I was never motivated enough to put my all into it. It was mostly due to the fact that I had to play team sports with classmates I wasn't on good terms with and the coaches were just there to get a pay check. I told Sherlock this, and he said that he understood exactly what I went through, because the same thing happened to him when he was younger. But he soon realized that team-related sports and training isn't for everyone, especially for antisocial folk like us. In _solo_ training, though — or even one-on-one, like we're doing now — you're just competing with yourself, and setting your own goals and standards. I never thought of it in that light before, but I quite like it.

In fact, I'm starting to _love_ it.

 _With all due respect,_

 _Harley Watson_


End file.
